tv [untitled] February 25, 2012 7:00am-7:30am PST
[applause] >> i will close with a poem from the book it's live evil. a name of a miles davis album we know that miles davis abused his wife. physically. pearl initially had mad at miles the reason this poem exist system because of that esan and the epigraphs that will ground it some more. quote, miles was guilt of self confessed violet crimes against women we should break his records and burn his cd's until he apologizes. the trumpet's mouth is apology. you just write a poem about your need to do that a madual
johnson. all right. live people. the pins point come downs on the butter fly. the knuckle come down on ms. sisly. the mallet come down on the cd case. wait! the mallet come down on the butter fly. the pins point come down on the ms. sisly. the knuckle come down on the cd case. wait! >> the knuckle come down on the buttir fly. the pins point come down on the cd case. dammit. the butter fly, ms. sisly the cd case. the roses rips at the spit much the phoenix dazzling petals births something. the martir's smile that saves
something. what did we make? listen to the butter fly, the pinpoint makes no sound sticking the [inaudible] no brass wail to the air here it's silent as a necktie this is not right. ms. sisly a cd case and a pin striped suit did he stick her lips red. i don't know, i don't know. sometimes he wore a pin striped 3 piece and a dazzling tie. i have a mallet did he kiss her. lips red. did he stick her with a pins point much listen to the brass ware and butter fly the plastic and silence breaks. this is a man thinking he can build with a mallet. a martir with knuckles. this it is a man who through out
the notes. wait. dammit, ms. sisly why won't you listen to the man who writes lynches. he had a mallet and the oils in the hands cripple the butter fly won't fly again so butter wait. butter stay. butter still. what have we made that awakes. stay still. listen to the song of a man in his sleeping shell. it come down it come down. the pinpoint, the knuckle, the mallet. wait a bit. no birthing. no saving. no feeding. dammit! >> listen to the song of a man who makes what have we made? thank you. [applause]
poem and make it a song. it's funny because something like two days before he asked me to do this, i was thinking to myself, i wonder what it would be like to write a song to the poetry. the reason i love the poem that we chose is because everything that i love in this poem, it's different, but, it has this magic in it and it's what you heard in spanish. of unexpected and beautiful things being placed next to each other in a way that surprises you and makes you realize life is always magical.
[applause]. >> performing the poem day 30, for transforming into a raindrop. stand up. rise. balance your body slowly. you will notice you are making small, concentric circles. now partially close your eyes. looking between your eye lashes, feel the drop of water. concentrate on the idea that your body is essentially liquid. now gently raise a leg. keep the balance you achieved.
raise your arm slowly so as not to break the balance that is costing us so much. hold your head in your hand. balance is at its critical point. pull your head upwards. your body fights against gravity. close your eyes and enjoy the pleasure of having changed into the last raindrop balance in your silent of the night. [applause]. >> foreign language speaking.
[applause]. >> day 215, for my grandparents. the photos trapped in a box, rewrite the path of their rooms full of light. invisible photo that is unravel the dreams in a vigilant sleepless night that search for the lines they begin to be what they will be, and when the box dreams, the photos are startled and the final detail is lacking. the finishing touch on the edge of the door shines in the city.
the imperceptible stain of one circle that diminishes the paintings that clouds let pass over us. clouds that pass over the beach of my childhood. near streets when i was a child. escaping the light of the moon of san pedro. the secret garden of my first poem. by the beach. my boyhood slow kiss on the lips of that girl. the kiss of my grand mother, witnesses clouds and dogs flying over the blue embrace of my water. that